


Scarred Beautiful

by notboldly



Category: Star Trek (2009)
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-02-20
Updated: 2012-02-05
Packaged: 2017-10-30 16:00:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 18,871
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/333492
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notboldly/pseuds/notboldly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>McCoy had never put much credence in judging people based on their scars, probably because he had more than a few himself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Scarred Beautiful

All his life, McCoy had tried to be a gentleman. Not because he had grown up in the belly of the South or because his more traditional grandparents had expected it of him, but because since the very beginning, McCoy himself had held an old-fashioned ( _archaic_ ) view of right and wrong. He never so much as jaywalked in his youth, not minding the extra minutes it took to reach the nearest corner, and when he went into medical school at the tender age of twenty, he did everything by the book, followed every procedure exactly as he was told, and thanked his professors with hearty southern gratitude. “Yes ma’am” and “no sir” were things that came unbidden from his mouth whenever he was nervous, or happy, or drunk, and every woman he had ever dated during his sparse experience with the whole thing had described him as having the hands of a surgeon and the heart of a gentle boy. This was normally said with laughter or affection, and so McCoy had never considered “southern gentlemen” to be an insult. Not really.

It was hard to be a gentleman, however, when he was surrounded by  _morons_.

“What  _on Earth_  made you think  _combining alien chemicals_  was a good idea? Good God man, I’m a doctor, and even  _I_ know not to make modifications to the engines without testing these things first!”

The secondary engineer winced but looked—in true engineer form—unrepentant.

“Mister Scott  _said_ —”

“Oh,  _Mister Scott_.” McCoy scowled and poked Lieutenant Kyle in the side with his small laser wand. Kyle winced again.

“Well, maybe you should ask  _Mister Scott_  about his opinion on second-degree burns from radioactive chemicals?” His prompting was met with only silence. “No? Then maybe you should listen to your kindly ship doctor and  _not_  combine dilithium with an extremely unstable isotope from an unanalyzed alien planet!”

“Yes, Doctor,” Kyle answered, a mumble. McCoy wondered if he’d hear about it later—bullying the engineers wasn’t exactly good form—but then he decided he didn’t care.

 _Damn morons._  It was just a bad day in general for ship-wide accidents and even those who weren’t normally clumsy or foolish were affected by a recently-damaged artificial gravity…unfortunately, often in dangerous, lasting ways. Already that morning he’d healed a broken back, three burns (all engineers from Scotty’s latest adventure), and a chipped tooth, and judging by the expression on Christine’s face when she walked in, his afternoon was not going to be any better.

“Doctor?”

“Yes, Nurse Chapel?”

Her lips pursed, a sure sign of catastrophe.

“Doctor, apparently there was an accident in science lab seven; we’re getting reports of injuries now.”

McCoy sighed and dismissed the newly-healed Kyle with a pat on the back, scowling even before he turned to see the polite face of his head nurse.

“Well, send ‘em in.”

“Yes, Doctor.”

It took long hours to treat the series of patients with minor burns, taking almost as much time to heal individually as he suspected they would if they were just to let them heal naturally, but there was  _whining_  and  _complaining_  and he was two seconds away from kicking out the whole lot of them when suddenly, no one was left.

Nurse Chapel looked rather impressed.

“Doctor McCoy, I do believe that’s the fastest you’ve ever used a dermal regenerator before. Ever think about going into cosmetic surgery?”

“You mean give someone a new  _nose_  when they already have one as good as nature would ever give them? Don’t insult me, Christine.”

She shrugged and packed up the spare things she carried to work with her every morning, McCoy realizing belatedly that her shift had ended. Hell,  _his_  shift had ended; if there was such a thing as overtime on a ship in hostile space, he was just racking it up.

He suddenly found a tray of hypos terribly interesting: anything to avoid looking at her face.

“You have plans for the evening?”

She beamed; he saw it reflected on the counter when she looked at his back.

“Yes, actually! Roger sent me e-flowers today, and he promised to call. Isn’t he wonderful?”

McCoy smiled to himself, barely, at the obvious love-light sparkling in her eyes.

“Yeah, he’s swell.”  _Lucky_  was what McCoy meant to say, but he couldn’t. He might’ve wished Christine all the best, but he could admit to being jealous, just a bit, at the thought of some scientist a thousand light-years away getting to come home to a pretty blonde who loved him, even when he wasn’t there. “Have a good night, Christine.”

“You too, Doctor. Don’t work too late, and—Mister Spock!”

The surprise in her voice amused McCoy a bit—too much. Everyone knew she had a crush on their Vulcan officer, just like everyone knew it made Spock—and Uhura, to a lesser degree—extremely uncomfortable. Just like McCoy privately knew Christine would never betray Roger, even if Spock had given her the opportunity.

 _Jealous, old man_?

“Nurse Chapel.”

McCoy shook his head and began filling the hypos at the counter, listening to the awkward conversation with half an ear until he thought his hair might curl from secondhand embarrassment, and then he turned.

“Nurse Chapel.” She jolted, and McCoy saw enough of her soft smile to know that she’d been distracted, as much as six-foot-two of Vulcan could distract anyone. “Roger?”

She looked guilty for half a heartbeat, and then she expressed her goodbyes a second time before jogging off down the hallway. McCoy just shook his head at how very  _not_  relieved Spock looked.

“Well? Do you aim to come in all the way, or are you waiting for her to come back?”

Spock moved inside as quickly as he could but not  _too_  quickly, and McCoy just shook his head again.

“Not at all, Doctor. May I sit?”

“Yeah, sure.” Spock sat on the nearest biobed, and McCoy frowned. “What’s wrong with you?”

“I was acting in science laboratory seven this afternoon.” The statement, as all of Spock’s statements were, contained just enough information without betraying any of the unnecessary details.

“For the explosion? That was six hours ago! Don’t you know an injured officer is about as useful as a trapdoor in a canoe? Good God man!”

_Calm down, boy; people will start to think you care about the elf!_

“I appreciate the concern, Doctor, but it is unnecessary.”

McCoy scowled and pulled out his tricorder, noting the way Spock said “doctor” without inflection and the way he didn’t lean back, not even when McCoy pushed at his shoulder experimentally.

“The hell it is! I’m not your babysitter; everyone else’s, sometimes, but not yours. Now, where does it hurt?”

Spock, in response, rolled onto his stomach and pulled the two layers of punched-hole fabric off his back, exposing a neat series of cuts and gashes and openings that still had sparkling clear shards in them. The area around the wounds was dark green and swollen, and hotter to McCoy’s experimental touch than it should have been.

McCoy whistled and went to the nearest drawer, retrieving a strong antiseptic, a pair of gloves, and—wincing—a pair of tweezers. There were some things that just had to be done by hand.

By the time he’d returned to the biobed and Spock’s still form, he was angry.

“Glass? You have glass in your back and you waited  _six hours_  to come to sickbay?”

Spock didn’t flinch when the tweezers in McCoy’s hands found the first slice, pulling it out and setting the vibrant green fleck on the metal medical stand nearby.

“Doctor, your anger is—”

Spock cut himself off when McCoy’s instrument had to pull slightly harder than before to remove the next piece; this one was almost an inch long, and McCoy was impressed, more than he could say, that Spock didn’t make a sound when he went for the third. Didn’t flinch.

“Unnecessary, I know. Dumbass Vulcan.” The words were grudgingly fond, and Spock stiffened, McCoy placing a hand on his lower back to keep the skin from bunching, from pushing the shards deeper.

“You should not speak to a commanding officer so disrespectfully, Doctor.”

“Acknowledged.” Then, because McCoy knew he could hear him: “Pointy-eared, green-blooded, computerized _dumbass_ …”

Spock didn’t respond; after two years, he knew to recognize the goading when it showed up, and after seeing Spock in sickbay for something or another at least thirty times the first year alone, McCoy knew he didn’t have an advantage quite like he did in his own territory.

“So, why’d you delay so long?” Spock was silent, and McCoy wanted to keep him talking, mainly to distract from the way he had to dig for the tiny triangle of glass near his shoulder.“No, really. If you’d waited much longer, you might’ve been in a heap of trouble. As it is, some of these pieces are deep enough in your muscle that—ah-ha!” McCoy held it up in triumph, and then showed it to Spock with a flourish. “See? Got it.”

“Thank you, Doctor.” Spock’s voice was strained, and McCoy patted an unmarred shoulder in sympathy.

“Need a pain killer? You have twenty more at least, more if one breaks.” Spock didn’t answer right away, and McCoy had removed another before Spock pushed out a response.

“Possibly.”

McCoy imagined he was tired, if he was willing to accept something for the pain. Out of more sympathy than he probably should have felt considering Spock’s actions had been Kirk-level dumb that evening, he gave him a strong one, one that would leave him feeling no pain and floating on clouds in a minute.

And—because he was nothing if not moral, despite how he might have appeared in the past—he patted Spock once more on the shoulder to get his attention before he resumed his work.

“Spock, you’re gonna be loopy in a minute. If you want to not say anything embarrassing, I’d just not talk at all.”

Spock didn’t respond then either, but he flinched instinctively when cold, sterile metal touched his back again. McCoy was happy to see that after three more slivers of glass, the drugs had kicked in, and Spock didn’t react at all when he had to nearly gouge out a particularly stubborn piece.

“Hey, Spock? You with me?”

Spock rolled his head to look at him, not looking any different from usual except for the dilation of his pupils. McCoy was just glad he was conscious; it wasn’t like he operated on anything but guesswork when it came to medicating his half-Vulcan colleague.

“I was distracted. In the lab. And…I did not wish for anyone to see me like this. I did not think it was so serious.”

The statement was the barest murmur, and McCoy nodded, like he understood. A part of him wondered what had the ability to distract  _Spock_ , with his alarming, almost creepy focus, but he didn’t ask. None of his business.

“It happens to the best of us.”

Spock was still staring at him, and McCoy blinked slowly, swallowed against the dryness in his throat. Spock mimicked the motion, perhaps unintentionally, and McCoy forced his mind not to stray, not even a little.

“Nyota wants children.”

McCoy jerked, but thankfully, the only result was to send the sliver he held in the air skittering across the floor below.

“Right now?”

“Doctor, you know I cannot have children.”

McCoy knew. He’d been a surgeon a long time, and while Spock’s anatomy was neither completely Vulcan nor completely human, he was wholly infertile. If McCoy remembered correctly—and he did, because Spock’s existence had been big news in the scientific community for years—none of the Vulcan scientists in charge of his conception had checked to see if he would be fully functioning, as they’d expected him to die within the first year of his birth.

Spock had surprised them all.

“She left, huh?” McCoy heard his voice turn gruff, knew it was as much a response of what was left of his sympathetic nature as the need to not sound like that boy he’d used to be.

“It was her decision. Logically, if I cannot give her what she wants…”

Spock shrugged, just barely; it wasn’t smart, not when someone was performing surgery on his  _back_ , but that was the problem with those drugs, or love: it made fools out of everybody.

McCoy just continued to work. Thirteen down.

“Better to seek greener pastures.”

“Doctor, I do not understand.”

McCoy took pity on him.

“Well, it wouldn’t have made you happy if she’d stayed, and you’d known she wanted something else. It wouldn’t have helped anybody, but at least now you can find someone who doesn’t want kids and she can find someone who does. Who can.”

The entire thing came out sounding less comforting than McCoy had intended for it to, but what could he say? He was no psychologist, but Spock—emotionless, hybrid Spock—had about as bad a tale of woe as he’d ever heard.

“Do you have children, Doctor?”

McCoy nodded absently even though Spock couldn’t see it, and pressed at the flesh under his hands, looking for the microscopic fragments of glass that no doubt remained. No good; he’d have to get an x-ray.

“One. A daughter with my ex-wife.” It was said so casually that McCoy was rather proud of himself, proud that the statement held none of the pain or bitterness that still lingered when he thought of Jocelyn.

“I want children, Doctor.” Spock sounded about as close to heartbroken as McCoy was sure a Vulcan ever did, and he patted him on the lower back this time, just above the waistband of his pants, never so much as glancing away from the expanse of wounded skin in front of him.

If Spock looked as depressed as he sounded, McCoy didn’t think he had the right to see it.

“Spock.” Spock made an affirming noise, and McCoy patted him again, this time on the shoulder. “There’s nothing wrong with you, Spock.”

“For a computer, Doctor?”

McCoy shrugged, and reached for the tiniest slice of glass, the last one he could see.

“Computers, Vulcans. They’re all the same.”

Spock didn’t say anything, and McCoy just gave him a quick shake before letting go, his voice turning brisk.

“Okay, Spock. A quick x-ray and a sealant, and then you’re done. They’ll scar, probably, but I don’t suppose you care much about that.”

Spock’s head lolled in response, and McCoy went to get his x-ray before he could inevitably begin commiserating with his drugged commanding officer.

 He deliberately ignored the fact that the sympathy was already there.

********

McCoy didn’t say anything about Spock’s late night visit or the drugged stumble of a walk he enacted back to his quarters, not because he openly respected him (although he probably did in some secret corner of his mind) but because doctor-patient confidentiality was something he’d never broken, not even on his worst days. He still thought about it for hours, thought about it in terms of  _poor guy_  and wondering what the hell Spock had left out. Uhura had always seemed like something of a reasonable lady, and it was odd—very—to think that she’d leave the man she’d been seeing for the past two years or more over something that seemed so surmountable in modern times. Adoption—heaven knew there were enough orphans. Artificial genetic reproduction was all the rage on some of the more science-oriented planets. Cloning was possible, even, to some extent. It seemed almost ridiculous that being unable to reproduce  _biologically_  with one sperm and one egg had caused such a rift, and as McCoy went about his day, he made plans to pester Spock incessantly until he got answers.

Except, of course, Spock was about as open to questioning as a stone wall, and probably less forgiving.

“Doctor McCoy.” The greeting was stiff and formal, and McCoy hesitated before entering the turbolift. He wondered if Spock illogically blamed his doctor for the un-Vulcan candor of the night before, and if there was any way he could respond without flipping his lid.

“Spock. How’s your back?” The question was polite as well as necessary, and of course Spock didn’t appreciate it; he was like Jim in that way.

“Acceptable.”

McCoy scowled, and the turbolift had changed directions twice before he thought he could respond coolly about the entire thing.

“Spock, I’m a doctor. I need a medically _meaningful_  answer.”

Spock raised an eyebrow, doing his best impression of an annoyed Vulcan.

“They are healing without obvious detriment to my movement or my position on the ship, and the sealant you placed on them last night has been mostly effective at keeping the wounds closed.”

“Mostly?”

“Entirely. Doctor, perhaps you should have someone check your hearing.” The neutral prodding was effective, and McCoy forgot that he’d been about to demand Spock return to sickbay before he bled out of his clothes.

“Now, you listen to me! We don’t all have foot-long ears like you do—”

“Doctor.” The interruption was smooth, and it successfully distracted McCoy from the rant that might have— _might have_ —been building. “Did you say they would scar?”

McCoy shrugged, and the turbolift stopped, two ensigns entering. He waited until they left before responding.

“Yeah, most of them, probably. There’s no real way to stop that—”

Spock interrupted him a second time, and McCoy thought he might have imagined the underlying urgency in the whole thing.

“There are medically approved methods to reducing the appearance of such blemishes, correct?”

“Yeah. Cosmetic surgery.” McCoy glanced at Spock, and saw him standing stiffly, staring at the door. “Don’t tell me that you—”

“I was under the impression that doctors were supposed to be impartial,  _Doctor_.” The subtle disapproval cut, and McCoy scowled.

“And I was under the impression that Vulcans weren’t  _vain_!” he snapped out, but Spock didn’t flinch, didn’t so much as shift.

“It is not unreasonable to desire an aesthetically pleasing partner, Doctor.”

The point—that Spock was planning to date again, and so soon—went over his head.

“Maybe not, but—“ _Anybody who minds a few scars is shallow_ ; he didn’t get a chance to finish, because the turbolift slowed to a stop.

“Your stop, Doctor.”

McCoy left, all but stomped out, his feet automatically carrying him to the mess hall, ready to dismiss the entire thing.

As the doors begin to close, however, McCoy slapped out a hand to stop them.

“A week. They should be all healed in a week, so your first appointment can be then. 1400 hours.”

“Affirmative.”

“It’ll take a while, Spock,” he warned, wondering if Spock’s belief that he had to be “aesthetically pleasing” was enough to warrant weeks of work. “There were dozens of them last night, and they might not all scar, but most of them will.”

“Understood.”

McCoy removed his hand, and the turbolift doors closed, effectively ending the conversation. And—because McCoy was hungry and because he was a professional after all—he didn’t call down another turbolift or hit the comm button to continue their discussion, didn’t do what he suspected Spock was expecting.

As he ate his lunch, however, the thought remained.

_Poor guy._

********

McCoy hadn’t been lying to Christine when he’d said that he found cosmetic surgery kind of ridiculous on the whole. Certain times it was warranted—accidents meant that people sometimes lost limbs or damaged their face beyond what they were comfortable with, and he was all for trying to blend into society when the alternative was people looking at you with disgust—but he didn’t understand it most of the time. A person was unique, every mark life made on them special; even two people identical down to the last chromosome were different because of their different experiences, and he thought it was nothing but a good thing. A bumpy nose? Beautiful. A receding hairline? Amazing. Birth marks, scars, skin discoloration? Perfect.

Of course, Christine said it was because he was a good-looking man that he didn’t understand the appeal. Jim said it was because he tended to date people who were more average-looking these days, since beautiful, beautiful Jocelyn had broken his heart. McCoy didn’t care what they thought; no matter which way he looked at it, the tiny scars on Spock’s back—mere pinpricks, more like freckles, really—were just not worth the time.

Like with so many things with Spock, he just didn’t understand his motives. There were twenty-two of them, tiny impressions in his flesh, and McCoy wasn’t kidding when he said they looked like freckles. He kind of thought they gave him character, but if he wanted them gone he wanted them gone, and Starfleet regulations didn’t have anything on superficial surgery; it was really up to him.

McCoy grumbled as he pulled on his gloves and Spock lay down, neither of them saying much of anything to each other. Well, not intentionally.

“Don’t know why you want them removed. You can barely see ‘em, and it’s not like potential girlfriends immediately ask to see your back.”

McCoy emphasized the statement by pushing into the skin around the freshly-healed marks, checking to see that the flesh had enough give. He hadn’t thought he’d have to use a softening lotion on Spock—he was certainly young enough—and he was glad that his initial thoughts were as right as Jim’s usually-crazy ideas. He was glad of it, because it would make things so much easier if he didn’t have to drug him again. Who knew what Spock would say if he did? Answers, probably, but Spock would most likely never forgive him if McCoy heard his actual  _secrets._

Of course, there were still some things that were…odd about the scars. Vulcans didn’t tend to share much about their anatomy and biology with the medical community at whole so he couldn’t be entirely sure, but his limited-experience with scar tissue on Vulcan skin was that the scars came in green as their blood, maybe a bit darker. Spock’s, however, were brown like tree bark, and McCoy really didn’t know what that meant for anything.

So—like with most things having to do with Spock—he guessed.

 “Okay, here’s the deal. I don’t know how much you looked into this procedure—probably a lot, since it’s you—but I’m going to pull the individual molecules of your skin to cover and merge with the scars.” He tapped a thin wand, the tiniest of machines, against his starting point of Spock’s lower left shoulder. “Because it requires a fair bit of radiation, the longest session can only be an hour, max, and there would probably be…oh, two of them per session, maybe. Afterwards, I have a cream that you need to put on the altered area to keep the skin from rejecting the reformed cells—” McCoy set the small bottle in Spock’s line of sight before continuing. “—and the intermediate period between each session has to be a minimum of a week. We’re not going to push it, either, so I’d say at least ten days after this first session; people react differently to the radiation, and we don’t want your skin cells multiplying into a new appendage or anything.”

“I understand, Doctor.”

“It’ll feel a bit like burning, too, so I have some numbing drugs that—”

“No, Doctor. No drugs.” Spock’s voice was almost sharp, and McCoy shrugged; so much for trust.

“Fine, it’s your show. What do I know? I’m only the doctor.”

Spock’s chest rose and fell in what might have been a sigh but was definitely exasperation, and McCoy scowled at the back of his head.

“Please proceed.”

McCoy reached for the first mark, and his free hand landed just over the top of Spock’s ribcage, on the soft flesh near his upper arm. Spock flinched.

“Hey, hold still! Do you  _want_  a pockmark made from  _radiation_?”

Spock didn’t answer, and McCoy repeated his previous action. Spock flinched again. No, not flinched– _jerked_.

“What the hell? Spock, are you  _ticklish_?”

“Not at all, Doctor.”

McCoy poked him in the side, and something that sounded like a quickly cut off laugh emerged.

“It certainly looks like you are to me.”

McCoy suddenly started to laugh, and Spock whipped around to stare at him.

“This is no time for amusement, Doctor.”

“It’s not amusement. See? We’re just…Spock, this is just so damn  _awkward._ ”

And it was. McCoy was looking at someone who was perfectly healthy, and without the urgency of possibly fatal injuries or sickness, he couldn’t say that being professional was all that easy. Certain things—like being  _ticklish_ —were just so bizarre; after all, it wasn’t like people were ticklish when they were drugged or bleeding to death.

Spock stiffened impossibly, and lay back down. This time when McCoy touched bare skin, he held still, probably through sheer force of will.

“It would not be ‘awkward,’  _Doctor_ , if you were a professional.”

McCoy should have been offended. Would have been, in fact, except Spock was  _ticklish._  It was just such an unexpected treat.

“Maybe. But I tell you what; we’ll get all friendly like, just for right now, and I’ll talk to you instead. Keep your mind off of it.”

And man, he could almost  _hear_  that eyebrow going up. Too bad it was a little bit difficult to be intimidating when you were lying on your stomach.

“A conversation with you is hardly a distraction, Doctor.”

McCoy started talking anyway, but hell if he knew why he chose the subject he did.

“Let me tell you about my daughter, all right? Her name is Joanna—I used to call her Jo-Jo, but she’d be too old for that now probably. She’s…eleven? No, ten.” McCoy ran the wand over Spock’s skin in the answering silence, learning the depression of the scar before he turned it on. Spock  _did_  flinch that time at what must have been a sudden sting, and McCoy massaged the skin in small circles with the tip.

By the time the first few surface layers had been removed, McCoy was able to resume talking with the sort of ease he wanted to project.

“She’s the prettiest little thing. Blue eyes, brown hair; I guess she looks a bit like me, but thankfully her face is all her mother’s, damnit all.” If Spock wondered about the contradiction, he didn’t ask.

“And let’s see… she likes lemon bubblegum. Peach cake. Strawberry-mango shampoo. I don’t think I’ve ever seen her eat meat, but not for moral reasons, I mean, she’s just a kid; she just thinks it tastes dirty. Last time I saw her was…oh, about three years ago. She was wearing pig tails, and doing well in school, and she called me ‘papa.’”

McCoy trailed off, and he was glad that Spock was looking away, that he probably didn’t care or wasn’t listening. He wiped his eyes all the same with his sleeve, knowing it would be only too obvious if there were suddenly tears on Spock’s back.

_Damnit all…you’re too old for this._

“You have not seen her for three years?” The quiet question was a surprise, and McCoy nodded as he continued to circle the small mark. The skin was looking hazy underneath the bright lights, and McCoy thought it was his eyes, but then the surface seemed to drift up towards him: loose cells. He pushed harder, and answered absently.

“Yeah. Her mother moved, and I have a forwarding P.O. box but no comm number; that information must have gotten lost in the mail.” McCoy forced out a gruff laugh and then stopped, remembering abruptly that this wasn’t Jim he was trying to deceive, and that a laugh wouldn’t fool Spock any more than a holograph would fool a hungry animal.

“Surely that is illegal.”

“Maybe. By the time I had a break to pursue it, I’d already been promoted and assigned.” McCoy didn’t add that he’d been assigned  _Enterprise_ , or that he’d stayed because Jim needed someone on his side with everyone in Starfleet expecting him to fail. After two years, he thought his role was obvious at this point, especially to someone as attentive as Spock.

“I grieve with thee.” The statement was surprising, from Spock, from anybody. McCoy shrugged, but although the motion was casual, he still took several minutes to compose himself, to say what he wanted to say.

“I’m not grieving. I just wish…I wish I could see her grow.” McCoy swallowed, and he widened the circle he was tracing, hoping the new sensation would distract Spock appropriately from the rasp in his throat. “I mean, I’m not having any more kids. Never again. She’s the only one.”

“So certain, Doctor?”

“Yeah. I just…not another woman. Another relationship.” It was funny that McCoy circled back to that, hilarious really, when he’d just been going over opportunities for Spock and Uhura not too long ago, and coming up with all those other options that were possible these days, that science said were options. But…in his country-doctor mind, there was just something special about a man, and a woman, and a baby.

_There’s those archaic ideas again…_

He guessed Spock and Uhura’s now-commonly-known breakup really wasn’t that hard to understand after all. And—if the way Spock relaxed under his hands was any indication—  Spock probably understood the point he was trying to make all too well.

“Not another woman, Doctor?”

McCoy nodded, murmured out a soft “yeah,” and continued to move his wand back and forth in silence until the tiny pinprick of a mark was no longer visible at all. He checked his watch; twenty-one minutes.

“All right, Spock. A half an hour more, and next time, it’s your turn to keep the conversation up.”

And before the silence could really follow this pronouncement, McCoy launched into a favorite story of Joanna’s about a kitten with mittens.


	2. Chapter 2

Spock followed his instructions to the letter—of course he did, since he clearly wanted the procedure to work, to give him back his smooth young skin. McCoy would have laughed at the urgency of it, at Spock contacting him in the middle of the night to ask how he knew when he had applied enough of the lotion, but eventually he just shrugged and stored the knowledge in the back of his brain, in his own personal personnel files. Jim worried excessively about cold sores; he supposed that in comparison Spock’s obsession with maintaining his appearance  _exactly_  wasn’t that odd.

It was still a  _little_  bit weird, though. Enough so that when Spock showed up for his next appointment, stiff as a board and looking impatient, he sighed.

“All right, now turn around.” Spock obeyed the gruff instructions, and McCoy held the small instrument close to Spock’s back, looking for any mutation, any rejection of the procedure. He was relieved to find none, to find that the “safe radiation” hadn’t been a lie this time. “Arms up.” Spock did so, and the stretch of his blue shift caused the machine to return an “inconclusive.”

_Damn sensitive technology._

“Okay, shirts off. Let’s have a look at them.”

Spock hesitated as he had the first time, as he did every time someone stood at his back, but he still made quick work of the blue top and the black undershirt. McCoy set the furiously beeping machine down and—with a doctor’s eye and a certain hand—ran his fingers across the still fresh-looking marks. Light brown now; a slight discoloration, but nothing major. Nothing that anyone would see unless they were looking for it.

McCoy missed the way Spock sucked in his breath, because he was too concerned with how hot the skin under his fingers felt.

“Spock, are you sick? Are you having an internal reaction? Does it hurt?” He didn’t wait for a response, picking up a standard medical tricorder with his spare hand, his digits still testing the give and strength of rearranged skin.

“Negative.” That one sounded almost breathless to his ears; McCoy knew he must have imagined it, although  _God knew_  why he’d want to.

 _I wouldn’t be surprised if it did hurt, stubborn bastard. Doesn’t he understand that I don’t **want**  to hurt him_?

“Doctor. What are you thinking?” Spock had stiffened under his hands, and McCoy realized too late that he was just resting his palm over the marks now, a friendly touch that meant something worlds different to Vulcans. With a purposely feigned nonchalance, he turned the touch professional, scowling when he found it—a tiny bump of flesh at the nape of his neck.

“Who are you, my wife? I’m thinking about our next shore leave. Jim has something ridiculous planned, I know it—well, you probably know it too, since I know he’s most likely tried to rope you into it.”McCoy wasn’t really sure what he was saying, too busy examining the raised flesh for signs of malicious, malformed cells; he was relieved to find nothing of the sort, the lump looking like…a surgery scar? Not one of his, either; he would never be so sloppy, and he’d never done any major surgery on Spock before, anyway.

“What is your opinion of the Captain?”

 _Poor kid, been alone his entire life, doesn’t know friendship until it punches him in the eye_ —

“Damn fool is going to get himself killed one of these days, and I won’t be there to patch him up. And his crazy schemes are nothing but trouble.” It was a vague answer and McCoy knew it, but he didn’t know why Spock cared one whit about his opinion of their vibrant golden leader, and he was afraid to ask.

“You hold affection for him.”

_He’s my best friend._

“Well, I haven’t let him get killed yet, have I? Now lay down, and stop with the interrogation.”

McCoy removed his hand, and he realized—too late—that he hadn’t been wearing gloves. The knowledge made him scowl reflexively, some part of him cursing his faux pas, but another part—a larger part—was annoyed that he had to change his normal habits to suit one Vulcan. He didn’t wear gloves with anyone  _else_ , not for such a simple, noninvasive procedure. Hell,  _most_  of him was annoyed.

But a small part of his mind—a  _very_  small part—wondered why Spock hadn’t said anything. Why he still hadn’t said anything.

“Hey, Spock—why don’t Vulcans like being touched?” He’d heard rumors, of course, but since Nero, the entire universe had been filled with rumors about Vulcans—it wasn’t like there were many people who cared, and even fewer of them who would contradict the false information.

Spock didn’t respond, simply resuming his previous prone position on the nearest biobed. It wasn’t until McCoy reached for the box of blue neoprene gloves that he spoke at all.

“Doctor, you needn’t wear them if they inconvenience you.”

McCoy hesitated; it was a faux pas for a  _reason_ , after all, although he didn’t have a clue what it could be. But he was a professional, and gloves just weren’t necessary anymore except in the worst of cases, and if Spock said he didn’t mind…well, why waste the damn things?

“Well…I do better work without ‘em. They just get in the way.”

“Then do not concern yourself.”

McCoy shrugged and sat on his stool, taking a moment to isolate two more of the tiny scars; by coincidence, they were right below and to the left of the bump he had noticed earlier, and he made a note to ask about it when they were done.

As soon as his bare hands landed on Spock’s back, however, there was a quick, indrawn breath in the ribs under his hands.

“Something wrong?”

_Tell me, just for once. I’m your damn doctor!_

“No, Doctor. Merely…interesting.”

McCoy rolled his eyes and picked up the thin metal wand, carefully studying the spot he was going to work on to form a plan of attack, so to speak. Neat circles, neat lines, as little overlap as possible…as “safe” as the machine was, radiation was radiation, and too much retracing of his movements meant possible cell mutation on the surface, or worse, inside Spock’s body. His organs.

 _I hate this. Damned unnecessary risk for such a stupidly unnecessary procedure_ …

Spock didn’t turn around, but his voice was filled with annoyance.

“Doctor, you worry far too much. If you wish to refuse my request, I will seek the assistance of one of the other medical professionals residing on-board.”

McCoy just snorted.

“Don’t be stupid. This baby is the newest of the new, declared safe by a whopping eleven out of twenty professionals. Since the nay-saying nine refused only on the basis of the safety precautions necessary, only the particularly paranoid follow the safest of the safe procedures. Anyone else on this ship would go with  _required_  procedures; I go with what’s necessary.” McCoy paused just long enough for the distinction to be absorbed before proceeding with his work. “There’s a reason Starfleet doesn’t have a cosmetic surgery division, you know.”

“Indeed. It would be a superfluous use of resources.”

McCoy wondered at the contradiction of Spock’s disapproving of vanity surgery on the whole but wanting it for himself. He wondered probably longer than he would have, since Spock let the conversation end then and there.

McCoy sighed, and pushed; these scars were deeper, and he wiped the sweat off his upper lip with the sleeve of his shirt. He’d be pushing his time limit if he had to go too deep.

“I thought we agreed to fill the silence with conversation.” The prompt was as much to fill the silence as it was to distract McCoy from the ticking clock over his head.

“I agreed to no such thing.” McCoy snorted, and sharp, dark eyes glanced at where he was balanced precariously on his stool. McCoy didn’t anticipate Spock yielding even a little in his strict adherence to privacy, and so he was surprised when Spock hesitantly started speaking.

“Very well. I am experiencing a…dispute, of sorts.”

McCoy was alarmed, a bit. He might have ribbed Spock regularly about his Vulcan nature, but he knew there were others out there who took racism to extremes; he just wouldn’t have anticipated them being on  _Enterprise_.

“Have you talked to Jim about it? Can’t imagine anyone on the ship giving you trouble, but—”

“It is not that sort of dispute,” Spock interrupted, and then he looked away. McCoy waited.

“Doctor, what is a—a strip club?”

McCoy started to laugh, the sound gruff and deep and unstoppable, and he pulled the wand off Spock’s skin to prevent his hands from jerking.

“What on  _Earth_? Someone’s been inviting you to  _strip clubs_?”

“Yes. The Captain.”

McCoy shook his head, and when he could breathe without chuckling even quietly to himself, he resumed the surgery and their conversation. Although hell if  _he_  knew how to approach the idea of Vulcans and strip clubs.

“Figures. “ He took a few minutes of quiet work before he came up with the most tactful way of describing something that was pretty much exclusively human. “Well, Spock, a strip club is usually a bar and a couple stages where men and women get naked or nearly so in front of an audience.”

The look Spock shot him was alarmed, and McCoy nodded absently.

“Yeah, I didn’t imagine it would be your sort of thing.” He chuckled quietly then, remembering some of the conversations he’d overheard in the past. “How did you and  _Uhura_  ever get together, anyway?”

“Irrelevant.” The word was sharp and Spock seemed to realize it; he looked away quickly, determinedly staring at the blue pillow in front of him. “You appear to be remarkably adept at refusing the Captain’s suggestions. What is the most effective method?”

McCoy wondered if he should try to explain that no one ever  _really_  refused Jim; they just made compromises, and that only sometimes.

“Well…tell him you’re dating somebody.”

“I believe that a lie would only exacerbate the situation.”

“Then tell him you’re  _thinking_  about dating somebody. Not a lie exactly, is it?”

“I do not understand.”

McCoy stopped again, this time due to exasperation. Spock really was emotionally retarded sometimes, if he didn’t understand anything that made Jim  _Jim_.

“He’s  _worried_  about you, Spock. Jim…he may not be the most subtle person ever, but since neither you or Uhura are really talking about  _why_  you called it quits, he’s assuming it’s bad. He’s your friend.”

“He is your friend, Doctor.” Spoken like Jim could only have one, like some sort of single-plane math function; as if people were ever that easy.

McCoy resumed his work and tried to explain.

“There isn’t a friend quota, Spock. You can be friends with Jim, I can be friends with Jim. Hell, I’d even be friends with  _you_. You know, eventually.”

Which was true, more or less. McCoy hadn’t had much personal interaction with Spock, but he remembered standing next to him in the aftermath of Nero’s destruction, the two adults in a sea of people who were really only kids. Hell, that connection, that bare feeling of not being alone, had been all that kept him sober.

Was there a better basis for friendship than an innate understanding of the harshness of the world?

McCoy realized the silence had enveloped them again when he looked up from his work and found Spock staring.

“You are not lying.”

McCoy didn’t think Spock meant to offend him, and so he didn’t take it that way.

“No, I’m not. Here, turn this way.”

Spock stretched his hand above his head at McCoy’s direction, rotating his shoulder enough to completely expose the barest inch of scar tissue. Confident that he wouldn’t move for the moment, McCoy continued massaging the skin while Spock spoke.

“You and the Captain would not be equal as friends.”And that sounded like a warning or an apology, and McCoy found himself annoyed again.

“No rules about that either.” When nothing followed this statement, McCoy explained gently, more gently than any interaction he’d  _ever_  had with Spock. “There are many different kinds of friends, Spock, and none of them are better than the other.” He paused, and added to the statement before he could  get too far from the subject. “Ideally, of course, you should be friends with the person you’re dating.”

Spock stiffened, and McCoy realized the last might have come out sounding  _just a bit_  condescending.

“Nyota and I were exceptionally compatible, and we worked efficiently together.”

“Charming. I’m sure you had them just lining up to  _work efficiently_  with you.”

“Many humans considered me of acceptable appearance and personality to pursue, yes.”

“That’s what you want? To be acceptable?” Spock didn’t answer, but McCoy could read between the lines as well as anyone: you didn’t date a human if there wasn’t something  _human_  you wanted in your life. “Spock, you should want someone who lights up when they see you. Someone who makes you angry and happy and sad. Someone who…well, who sees you for the unique person you are.”

 _Like Jocelyn had once, with me._  McCoy didn’t mention that bit, because nothing killed a belief in true love quite like a bad divorce for the right reasons. But he had loved her, even if it hadn’t been enough in the end, and for those months before everything went to hell, he’d been happy.

Spock was still staring at him.

“Your opinion seems to be valid, according to the general population.” It was a small concession to emotional human motives, and McCoy smiled, only because Spock had looked away.

“When will you learn that I’m always right?”

“The numbers would indicate—”

“ _Don’t say it.”_

They bickered quietly throughout the rest of the appointment, and McCoy—strangely enough—forgot all about that bump on the back of Spock’s neck until after he’d left.

********

Their next appointment was about eight days later to the hour, and although McCoy made the same standard check for mutated cells, he was not expecting to find any; Spock’s genetics were— _for once_ —responding beautifully to the treatment. That bump still bothered him—he’d checked, and Spock’s public record didn’t mention any surgery prior to when McCoy became his doctor—but it didn’t seem to bother  _Spock_ , so he let it go. Maybe it was a birthmark or something. Maybe it was an actual scar. Maybe he was imagining a flaw on a body that had none– he didn’t know.

Spock, thankfully, didn’t seem to notice that McCoy was obsessing—rather a lot—on a spot on his body.

“Doctor?” He was two minutes early and McCoy was surprised, or he was until he noticed the large cylinder container he carried under one arm.

“Come in.” The nurses—well aware of the fact that McCoy ordered them away before Spock’s appointments for the sake of the man’s privacy—left immediately, Christine smiling at them both as she passed, and her eyes lingering just a fraction too long on Spock. McCoy’s voice was gruff when he spoke next, and he wondered why.

“What have you got there?”

“This, Doctor, is a sample of the organism we encountered three point seven days ago. I believe you stated that I ‘botched the acetylcholine test.’”

McCoy snorted, remembering. The organism had been single-celled but unique, showing all the characteristics of a higher functioning organism in terms of neuro-functions; as soon as it had been destroyed, the science team had of course gathered up all the remains they could, and  _of course_  they didn’t share with the medical wing. They wouldn’t, not until the gelatinous mass had become just dried jelly, because they were slow, and with the exception of Spock, a bunch of glory hounds.

He was still a little miffed about that, actually; he really had been curious.

“Yeah, and?”

“I deemed it both inappropriate to continue our interactions without some token, and necessary to obtain the input of an intelligent member of the medical division.”

McCoy was a bit surprised to hear Spock call him “intelligent” or his input “necessary,” and eclipsed everything else he’d said until the container was placed in his hands. Opening the lid, he saw a carefully preserved slice of specimen roughly the length of his forearm, and he stared at it, bemused.

“You brought me a gift?”

Spock nodded, and McCoy carefully replaced the lid, both grateful and confused. Vulcans didn’t normally say ‘thank you,’ did they?

“I was— _am_ —just doing my job, Spock.”

“I did not wish to take advantage.”

“ _You_? Take  _advantage_?” McCoy snorted when Spock simply continued to look at him, the expression almost nervous, as if McCoy’s opinion mattered for once, and he gestured toward what he was uncomfortably starting to think of as _Spock’s biobed_. Spock didn’t move, seemingly waiting for something, and McCoy sighed, a little exasperated. Now that it was  _here_ , he just wanted to study the damn organism sample, and his patience was at its thinnest.

“I tell you what, Spock, if the issue ever comes up: you can’t really take advantage of me. I’m just the ship’s overworked doctor, and this…well, let’s call it a favor for a friend. I don’t mind.”

Spock relaxed; McCoy wasn’t sure why or when, but by the time he’d finished, Spock appeared more relaxed than he’d ever been for one of their appointments. More relaxed than he’d ever been in sickbay, actually, and McCoy realized only belatedly that he’d called Spock ‘friend.’

“Would you like me to remove my shirts, Doctor?”

McCoy rolled his eyes.

“Well, if you don’t  _mind._  Come on, I don’t have all day.” He paused in following Spock to glance at the container on his countertop, beckoning to him, seemed like.“You should have given that to me after.”

Spock lay down quietly on his stomach, shifting only slightly in response to the pressure of McCoy’s hands as he examined the raised flesh of dotted scars.

“That would have made the surgery difficult, Doctor.”  

“Ha,  _ha._  With jokes like that, you could be a one-man show. Well, a circus, anyway.”

The skin under his hands twitched as his fingertips touched the latest patch of altered flesh, still sensitive even after eight days. He could feel the rumble of Spock’s voice through his ribs, the dip of his breath, and McCoy noted the even intake and outtake, finding himself pleased as he reached for the small machine.

“Doctor, if anyone is singular enough to entertain the unwashed masses who frequent such things, it would be you.”

McCoy did snort at that one – couldn’t help it, really. There was something undeniably fulfilling about bickering with Spock, and there was something almost…perfect about it, sometimes. In his younger years, McCoy would have killed for someone he could jab at in such a fashion and not worry about their feelings, because the truth was—gentleman or not—he could be kind of a mean, crotchety bastard when he wanted to be.

But Spock…Spock was just as bad.

“Doctor? If you cannot keep your mind on your task, I request that you delegate the job to someone more capable.”

Okay, so that one stung a little, as much as his slight on McCoy’s skills their previous meeting, enough that McCoy might have pulled on the skin under his fingers a bit harder than usual. Spock responded with a quickly smothered gasp of surprise at the small, unexpected hurt, and McCoy—because he never really  _intended_  the small cruelties he showed sometimes—quickly released him.

_Damnit. This is why I’ve never been good at massage._

Well, to be perfectly honest he’d only ever attempted it with Jocelyn, and by the time he had, there had been enough resentment and distrust between them that he didn’t think he would have been able to fake a relaxing massage if he’d tried. Jocelyn had laughed, if he remembered…right before she’d left for one of her “girls’ nights,” a thing which he realized only later had more boys than they should have.

“Doctor.” Spock’s voice broke through a fog of unhappy memories, and McCoy scowled, realizing he’d been doing exactly what Spock had accused him of less than a minute before.

“Yeah, what?” McCoy reached for a nearby hypo, expecting a complaint about the prolonged sting of the tiny machine, but Spock stopped him.

“Doctor, tell me about your previous spouse.”

What could he say about Jocelyn? That he’d made her unhappy? That she’d broken his heart eventually? That she’d never wanted the baby girl he loved with everything he had? No, there wasn’t much he could say about Jocelyn, not if he wanted to give her the credit she deserved, and so he responded to the probe for information with one of his own.

“Only if you tell me about this scar.” To emphasize, McCoy tapped the small bump near his neck. Spock didn’t flinch, but he did stiffen, just slightly.

“That is not relevant, Doctor. However, if you wish, I will tell you about mine.”

“Your what?” McCoy asked absently as he continued through the motions of erasing the tiny dots.

“My previous wife.”

McCoy swallowed, his throat dry.  _Well, you **did**  tell him to provide the conversation…_

But the thing was, McCoy had been expecting something along the lines of smiling when no one was looking or a favorite pet, not a bitter divorce (and it had to be bitter, because Spock wasn’t an easy guy.) But McCoy couldn’t refuse, not when the information was offered so freely.

“Okay.”

“Her name was T’Pring, and she died in the destruction of Vulcan.”

“And?”

“And nothing.”

McCoy shook his head to himself; Spock was not the sharing-and-caring type, and why did he think otherwise? 

“Correct me if I’m wrong, but weren’t you dating Uhura before that?”

“That is correct. However, T’Pring did not find enjoyment in our arranged marriage, and she wished for something that I could not give her.”

The similarities were almost eerie—if T’Pring and Spock had finally split because they had both grown to hate each other, his situation would have been identical to McCoy’s.

_No wonder he doesn’t believe that relationships should be something more than compatible…_

“And what was that?”

“I am uncertain. Had I known, we most likely would have severed our connection completely or settled the matter more formally by residing together on Earth.”

“Vulcans have divorce?” The question was more surprised than was probably appropriate, but Vulcans—in McCoy’s experience—were exceptionally spiritual without being so illogical as to enforce any one specific religion. They just seemed like they would place  _values_  on marriage.

“Not generally. Exceptions are made, but because couples are paired through mental compatibility, such serious disputes are rare.”

“Mental compatibility, huh?” McCoy smiled weakly because the memories had been sweet, once upon a time. “Jocie and I had that for a while, you know. Our marriage still crashed and burned.”

Even though Spock never turned his head, McCoy still got the feeling that Spock truly looked at him, then.

“As I said: exceptions are made.”

“Well, one thing that can be said for us: at least we’ll never have that problem.” It was meant as a joke, a subtle dig at the two divorcees commiserating those mistakes called marriage, but it fell flat in the serious atmosphere. Spock, after all, wasn’t broken; he still wanted that sort of relationship, enough that he was priming himself for the market, so to speak.

It was McCoy who seemed to be the one unable to let it go…and Spock knew. And for once, that cold iceberg of a Vulcan said the right thing.

“Mental compatibility, Doctor, is overrated.”


	3. Chapter 3

Difficulties arose not too long after their third appointment, because nothing lasted on the Enterprise, certainly not peace. The main problem, unfortunately, was not that McCoy realized Spock was kind of a pest or that Spock realized McCoy was illogical ninety-five percent of the time; instead, it was that McCoy realized Spock had not been wrong when he’d said he was attractive enough.

It started out with small things, tiny thoughts bubbling up in-between physical exams, because it was that time of the year and Starfleet had mandates that it followed when it came to health. McCoy thought most of them were silly—tonsil checks,  _really_?—and so he found other things to occupy his mind with. Much to his surprise and discomfort, this “other thing” was Spock. Specifically, how Spock was not his type  _at all_.

McCoy had had something of a confused adolescence; that was to be expected, growing up in the old-fashioned South and being bisexual while he was at it. It used to terrify him, back before he’d kissed his first farmboy or realized that scared strangers didn’t understand him any more than he understood them, back when he had an image to maintain as that nice southern boy. Southern gentlemen weren’t bisexual, and that simple fact had motivated more than a few bad choices in his life.

Jocelyn—although not entirely a mistake, because he truly loved his little girl and even his wife at one point—had been a bit of a coping method, his last attempt at that normal life, an attempt to please his parents and grandparents that he’d rushed through because he had shared a hand job in a bathroom with one of the summer interns at his hospital. It had taken a bad divorce and years of searching, but very eventually, McCoy had accepted he liked men and women both, and he had accepted that he had a  _type._

His type varied depending on gender, which made sense to him, what with his raising. He liked women with dark-hair and green eyes, who were petite like Jocelyn and so sweet and southern and delicate; women he always thought he could marry, even long after he’d given up that dream. The  _men_  he liked, on the other hand….they were much more like Jim, bulky with muscle and brimming with charm, or they had been until he’d actually  _met_  Jim, and he realized that his friend wasn’t actually a piece of meat. Because there was one other problem that McCoy still had with the whole bisexual thing, and that was this: women were supposed to be loved and treated with respect and gentle hands. Men were for sex.

McCoy couldn’t conceive of using Spock for sex, and so the attraction that sprang up one late night in the shower _freaked him the hell out_. Spock was a lot of things, but he was neither a petite woman nor a blond, hulking piece of man-meat, and the fact that McCoy still  _wanted_  that when he let his mind wander was dangerous, very dangerous. He liked Spock, enjoyed their arguments and their debates and their…understanding. He liked Spock’s mind even when the damn Vulcan was  _right_  and McCoy wasn’t, he liked the fact that Spock trusted him enough for delicate work, he liked the fact that Spock had saved his life more than once…and he liked Spock’s back and he liked Spock’s ass, and it was starting to become a serious problem.

But Spock apparently hadn’t got that memo, and so rather than make himself scarce as he should have, for some reason, he started to…linger.

After their fifth appointment, Spock stayed until well into the evening to help him restock his hypo supplies. After their sixth, Spock returned late in the night to bring him a tray of food, because McCoy had forgotten to eat in between his major scheduled appointments. Between their seventh and eighth, Spock had made him laugh, most likely unintentionally, but it had felt good all the same, refreshing and wholesome like thick sweet tea.

After their ninth appointment, Spock had brought him back peach cobbler from the market planet they orbited, because a sudden epidemic of Andorian measles meant that few members of the crew—least of all McCoy or his staff —had the time or the ability to take shore leave just then. Said cobbler was sweet and textured oddly, replicated peaches in a homemade crust, but it was sweet, so sweet…because Spock had no interest in such things, had gotten it just for him.

And then, after their tenth appointment, Spock had given him something even better than dessert or a helping hand in his underemployed sickbay: he had given him Joanna.

********

“You’re insane.”

“Doctor, it is a verifiable fact.”

McCoy snorted, because they’d had this conversation—or some semblance of it—three or four times by this point.

“No, it ain’t. There are no records—anywhere—that say that emotionless Vulcan living is any better than normal, messy human affairs.”

“I did not make such a claim. I merely stated that it has been proven that some objectivity—which humans often lack—is beneficial in ordering a society, and Vulcan culture reflects this.”

McCoy poked him in the back, just to the right of his ninth thoracic vertebra  (out of  _fourteen_  thoracic vertebrae, because Vulcan anatomy was Goddamn  _weird_ ), purposefully removing his hand afterwards lest the motion turn into a caress that wouldn’t have seemed annoyed, at all. And then he banged the nearest tray for good measure, because Spock was still Goddamned  _annoying_  sometimes, even though McCoy’s subconscious insisted on dreaming about him in all his long-limbed glory.

“There’s a difference between objectivity and being heartless!”

“Only in a matter of perspective.”

“ _Right_. I’ll be sure to say that the next time there’s a miscarriage, and we’ll see how well it goes over.”

“A personal tragedy is not governed by the same rules.”

“And a personal  _choice_  to be a pointy-eared robot doesn’t make a society! Humans  _can_  be objective, but most of the time it isn’t necessary.”

McCoy could all but hear that eyebrow going up, and he turned the machine in his hands up to a higher setting. They were in the home stretch now, with—at worst—three appointments to go before Spock’s back was once again a smooth, untouched canvas.

_Damnit, don’t think about it like that!_

“Is that a fact?”

“Cute, Spock. But if you try to tell me you’re infallible, I’m gonna tell everyone on board that you are secretly a warm, fuzzy kind of guy looking for true love.”

“That would be very unprofessional, Doctor.” Spock was breathing heavily for reasons McCoy didn’t understand, but he didn’t so much as attempt to rationalize it, knowing he would—at best—be going into a fantasy world for which there was no return.

The reality wasn’t much better, however, and as McCoy focused on his work—too intently—he forced himself to ask a question that he wasn’t entirely sure he wanted the answer to.

“How’s that going, by the way?”

“Doctor?”

“The quest for a girlfriend.”

“That is no longer relevant.”

McCoy didn’t believe him, because Spock said things were irrelevant  _a lot_  and he was usually being less than entirely truthful. And so McCoy sighed, loudly, into the open air.

“Spock, I’m your doctor. I’ve seen you drugged up and babbling, unconscious and awake and everything in between. Hell, I’ve even seen you  _naked_  more than once. You don’t have to worry about that pride you claim not to have, because quite frankly, there is nothing more embarrassing than the situations I’ve already seen you in.”

“I assure you that I am quite content with the situation at hand.”

McCoy would have asked what  _situation_  that was, but he could no longer see the twin scars he’d been working on, and his watch said that fifty-eight minutes had passed.

“Okay, you’re done. I don’t suppose you’d care to help me with a few things before you go?”

Spock shook his head and McCoy felt the disappointment; for a few weeks, he’d almost been caught up with everything, damnit.

“My apologies, Doctor, but I have an appointment in the main science laboratory. However, in light of your availability, I wonder if you wouldn’t consider conducting a short comm call on my behalf.”

McCoy grimaced reflexively because Spock asking for anything personal was about as common as crazy Romulans traveling back in time through black holes, but he nodded all the same…because he was a good  _friend_.

“Sure. What are antagonistic friends for?”

Spock handed him a data padd with the number already uploaded, and McCoy would have found it odd, would have asked about that too, except Spock had already made himself suspiciously scarce by that point. So instead, McCoy just shrugged lightly and asked for the patch through from the communications department, just barely noticing that the number had an extension for somewhere in southern Texas.

When the tiny, familiar, loved face appeared on the screen, he couldn’t breathe.

“Papa!”

She had changed since he’d last seen her, his baby girl. She wore her rich brown hair in a ponytail and she had a darker tan and a larger smattering of freckles than when they’d lived in rainy Seattle for a short time, and she was obviously older. Obviously different.

But she still looked at him like he was her entire world, and it was all he could do to keep from crying. All he could do to keep from hunting Spock down because he’d  _lied_ , so that McCoy could have this. And—if Joanna was to be believed—he’d been planning it for  _months…_ ever since McCoy had mentioned missing his baby in passing.

_Southern gentlemen don’t get crushes on their alien coworkers. They don’t!_

But as their conversation swelled and ebbed, as they smiled and joked like they hadn’t been able to in years, he couldn’t help but wonder if maybe he had one anyway.

********

The revelation didn’t make McCoy’s life any more peaceful; if anything, it made it so much worse, because now he had _feelings_  to associate with the beautiful bastard. Friendship he could handle, even lust sometimes, but open hearts and flowers and…bunnies, or whatever? Gag him with a spoon, but he didn’t think he could stand it.

For some reason, the inevitable rejection that was coming his way almost seemed like a relief, because really, who were they that he thought a normal relationship was in their future? It wasn’t possible, even if Spock hadn’t made it abundantly clear that he was interested in dating eventually. Dating, most likely of the female variety.

_Man, my subconscious **sucks**._

And as their next appointment came and went with McCoy practically stammering over himself and his hands jerking and his work being less than exceptional, he was annoyed, extremely so. Spock wanted to look perfect for some future someone. Spock wanted to hide every experience he’d ever had, all because of some misguided motivation that it would make him more attractive. Spock wanted to change, not for any reason at all except for the most shallow ones possible.

McCoy was unnecessarily annoyed for days, and it only got worse when he found himself suddenly flying into a bulkhead, on the receiving end of some attack on the ship that he hadn’t been prepared for. It was a battle, no doubt caused by another of Jim’s misguided attempts to help someone who would rather starve to death than accept help from a _human_. Unfortunately, the knowledge of exactly what was happening didn’t help the sudden pain of a bruised shoulder and a solid smack to the head anymore than it helped Christine’s torn rotator cuff or the various other bumps received by the medical division. In the aftermath of the conflict it still  _hurt_ , and not even Christine’s offer to dope him and examine the marks of impact had helped, because she was five seconds from tears herself and he couldn’t do that to a lady.

So he put on a brave face until he was alone, until she was necessarily resting her poor body and he was left to do the work of two. And alone, by himself, after everything, his hands shook with…something.

 “Son of a  _bitch_!” The tray fell with a clatter, and McCoy dove after it, striving in vain to keep the medicine—rare, _expensive_  medicine—from seeping through the grated metal floor. It didn’t work, and—in anger, in annoyance, in frustration—he threw the tray across the room. It only made his shoulder ache more.

He tried to stand, but he couldn’t push himself back up, and he cursed himself— cursed  _everything_ —for his refusal to accept Christine’s offer to look at his shoulder immediately after it had been injured. Being a Goddamned gentleman was a poor comfort at the moment.

When he fell again, he banged his arm against the counter, and he snarled.

“Luck be a lady, and a pox on her black soul!” It echoed through sickbay, and of course that was when the doors whished open, admitting Spock.

“An interesting phrase, Doctor.” A pause, and then: “Are you able to stand?”

“I’m  _fine_.” To prove it, McCoy dragged himself up, although he imagined the effort it obviously took said much more about his state than if he’d simply stayed on the floor. “What are you doing here, anyway? You don’t have an appointment for…Christ’s sake, it’s  _midnight_? What have I been  _doing_  for the past six hours!?”

“I assure you, Doctor, that I do not know. Do you require assistance?”

McCoy sighed. “No.” Not that he was surprised Spock had offered; the man had been an odd staple in sickbay for the past few weeks, regularly stopping by to make sure McCoy had eaten (to remind him to eat in his smug way) and to help with the more mundane tasks, like refilling hypos and heating some of the thicker medicines to make them less viscous and easier to use.

His presence had caused poor Christine’s heart to beat triple time, he swore it. Of course, Spock pretended not to notice her difficulties, even though—at times—he seemed weirdly aware of McCoy’s.

Like now.

“You are lying, Doctor. You were injured during the attack this afternoon.”

McCoy shrugged it off, which was a mistake, and he winced.

“Just knocked my shoulder. It’s a bit sore—tense muscles and all that.”

“Aren’t you a doctor?” The voice sounded disapproving, and McCoy scowled heartily, unable to take the disguised concern as what it was.

“Hey, listen you pointy-eared—”

“Doctor, please sit down and allow me to aid you.”

“ _Fine_.” McCoy sat down on the nearest biobed, not bothering to question how Spock meant to  _aid_  him.

That was a mistake too, and the second Spock’s hands landed on his shoulders, he knew it.

“ _Hey now_!” He pushed away, and he was only vaguely aware that Spock had been perched behind him. Spock’s expression at the overreaction, if anything, made him feel even more foolish. As if he’d needed the help.

But hell, he hadn’t expected Spock to  _touch him_ , especially without some warning. He would have been prepared for anything else except those heavy, long hands on his back.

“Forgive me, Doctor. I was merely attempting to apply Vulcan neuropressure.”

“I can’t do that. I’ve never been able to.” It required relaxing and exercising an extraordinary amount of mental discipline at the same time, and although McCoy hesitated to credit anything Spock said about humans in general,  _he_ , at least, had a difficult time of it.

Spock merely raised an eyebrow.

“I am aware. This is a simplified version, of the equivalent of a human massage.”

“You were offering a back massage,” McCoy translated. His life had taken a turn for the unexpectedly unrealistic, it seemed.

“It will ease the pain, Doctor.”

It would probably also fuel those damned fantasies like nothing else, too. McCoy knew he should probably just say no, take a shot for the pain, call Spock something mean, and move on with his late night tasks. But, as Spock had said before, he wasn’t exactly the most logical of beings.

He sat down again and waited, body tense. Spock slid forward, placed his hands on his shoulders, and draped a leg on each side of McCoy’s body, strong thighs pressed against the muscles of his own even while he was careful to keep their lower bodies separate. If Spock asked him to take his shirt off, it would probably kill him.

But when those hands started to move, McCoy forgot about their position…mostly.

 _He’s good at this_. The thought was a throw-away, lost in the circles of Spock’s fingers and the thrum of his own heart, in the sudden way he was sporting a hard-on that bulged obviously in his slacks. Less than a minute, and those warm hands, those damned  _beautiful_   _hands_ , had about undone him already.

 _This is a bad idea._  He wanted to be friends with Spock, he really did, subconscious or no, but a cold rejection would nip that one right in the bud. No friendship, not even one as questionable as theirs. No camaraderie. No seeing Spock with his shirt off. Hell, Spock could request a different doctor, and he would be in the right to do so. It was just a bad idea all around.

And then Spock shifted just a millimeter closer, and the mantra of  _badidea badidea badidea_ was lost. McCoy turned, dislodging the careful touches, and tackled him around the waist.

McCoy probably could have punched him and gotten the same reaction, which was Spock losing his apparently precarious balance, and them both falling off the biobed that wasn’t meant to hold two grown men and banging their heads on the floor.

What McCoy should have said was something along the lines of “ _Damnit_  Spock, ow!” before attempting to stand. What he said instead was “ _Stop teasing_ ,” and this was while lying with his hopefully-unnoticed erection pressed against the floor.

Spock looked relatively unsurprised by the entire situation, and McCoy would have wondered why if his shoulder hadn’t throbbed painfully—definitely not helped by landing on a Vulcan, or the floor—and if he hadn’t remembered that Spock had probably knocked his head on the way down. Because he was a doctor, he was able to push the  _massive_ embarrassment of it aside.

“How’s your head? Your vision?”

“Adequate. Doctor—”

“Don’t say it.” It would be easy to ignore everything if only Spock  _didn’t say anything_ , he was certain of it. He was only glad he hadn’t done anything to condemn himself, but he’d been a step away from  _kissing_  him, and Spock must have known it.

Of course he didn’t stay quiet.

“Would you like to engage in sexual activities at this time, Doctor?”

…which wasn’t what he was expecting at all, which led to one of the single most  _eloquent_  responses in his life.

“Huh?  _Here_?” And there was something wrong with him, since the first thing he worried about upon contemplating the idea was the  _location_. And there was something wrong with  _Spock_ , who didn’t so much as blink.

“If you like.”

“I have to admit, I expected you to react differently to…this.”  _This_  being the hard-on that was suddenly pressed against Spock’s hip although McCoy couldn’t remember deciding to move, and he scrambled up as soon as he realized.

“Unnecessary, Doctor.”

 _Call me Leonard_. It was on his lips, but he stopped. He might have had a  _thing_  for the prickly bastard, but a first name—between them—was something different. No one called him Leonard, and no one had for a long time. It could change _everything_.

So instead, McCoy just nodded slowly before turning and stumbling to one of the nearby medical cabinets used specifically for storing—as Christine often said—‘special’ items. Inside there were neat rows of Starfleet-approved spermicides and birth control, a variety of shots against every STD Jim could manage to get, and three dozen small vials of hypo-allergenic lubricant. He grabbed one, and by the time he’d turned back around, Spock had stood and stripped down to bare skin and was lying— _holy hell_ —face down on  _his_  biobed.

McCoy scowled for good measure, because he had an image to keep up, and pouncing on Spock’s prone form—while an appealing idea—wasn’t it.

 _I can be controlled too, you bastard._  And wasn’t that it? Cool, collected Spock gets propositioned, accepts, and smirks about it later. Well, McCoy wouldn’t give him the satisfaction.

He poked him in the side, and Spock huffed out a quick breath that he wasn’t able to prevent.

“You don’t think this should be the other way around? Don’t want to commit some Vulcan taboo or anything.” McCoy realized it was ridiculous as he was saying it, but he admittedly wasn’t thinking clearly enough to stop it. Spock was strong although he had his numerous flaws, and the idea of him willingly lying down for anyone was—

Sexy as hell, actually. Also inconvenient, because McCoy had  _never_ —not  _that_ —well, not with any of the one-night partners he’d had who happened to be male. Blow jobs and hand jobs were about as far as it went and he’d been grateful, because he was a doctor and casual  _anal_  sex had more risks than any of the simpler sex acts in terms of infection and lasting damage.

And there was Spock, being all  _casual_  about it.

“Doctor, we must have a rational conversation about Vulcan culture at some point if you believe we have cared about such personal matters in the past thousand years.”

 _Apparently._  McCoy didn’t say it, because he was too distracted by what amounted to “shut up and let’s fuck” in Spock-speak, and because he hadn’t shared  _personal matters_  with anyone for a long time. Too long; every second that went by was one more second where he thought he might explode, and everything about Spock—from the way he was leisurely rubbing himself against the biobed, clearly aroused, to the way his skin was flushed green on the back of his neck—was driving him slowly crazy. Who cared that Spock clearly didn’t want foreplay, or that he hadn’t turned around once? Not McCoy, that was for certain.

_Liar._

The thought was barely acknowledged because McCoy was weak and Spock was beautiful, laid out like he only ever was in the filthiest of fantasies, his legs spreading in welcome to emphasize hard buttocks and the dark curls of hair from his thighs to the hidden hardness beneath him. His knees dug into the mattress from both sides, and the slow movements from before became open  _humping._

McCoy didn’t think he had ever stripped so fast  _in his life_.

That tiny hole called to him, begging him to know the tight heat around his throbbing length, promising him a welcoming body and a firm ass to pound into. For the first time, possibly in his adult life, he  _wanted_  that, even if the rational part of his mind caused him to hesitate.

 _You know that body_ , an insidious voice whispered,  _you’ve been there once a year, at least. Physicals? It would be just like coming home…_

McCoy knew that the physicals in question weren’t the same, that there was a level of the interpersonal involved with a medical exam that wouldn’t be here this time, and it scared him. But as he reached out his fingers, his thumb brushing against the dark olive pucker of flesh, he longed for it, too. Spock was doing this for him, because he…wanted him. Somehow, Spock wanted  _him_.

The sound of the lubricant snapping open was loud, and McCoy watched Spock carefully for any sign of hesitation, any fear, any tensing, but there was none. His back stayed relaxed, pale skin with those freckle-shaped scars, and when McCoy reached out a hand to touch the remains of his most recent handiwork, he shook with more than desire.

_Never again, Spock. Don’t get in an accident, ever again. I don’t mind the scars, but damnit all…_

McCoy removed his hand quickly, half-expecting the damning,  _caring_  thought to condemn him if he didn’t, and he called out an order for the sickbay to remain locked except on his authority, something he should have done earlier. Then, because he had forgotten if he’d done so when he once again faced that beautiful body waiting for him, he called out the command again.

Spock actually chuckled, a dry, raspy sound.

“Doctor, if you lock the doors a third time, someone will surely suspect.”

McCoy nodded, and he fumbled a slippery, coated finger to the flesh between the two pale half-orbs of muscle. Spock _did_ tense when touched with the cool lubricant, a sensitivity to the slight chill of it, and McCoy chastised himself for forgetting to warm it between his palms. He did so, his hands becoming sloppy with the excess, but even the mess was worth it when he touched the heated flesh and Spock made a noise of approval. He circled the opening hesitantly, absorbing the sensation as much as he could with only half a mind, aware of the slightly-greater heat of Vulcans as he wondered how cool he felt to Spock. Right now he felt like he was on fire, and he could barely even answer Spock’s comment. Could hardly remember that Spock had said anything.

“Yes. Yes, they’ll…we wouldn’t want them to…”

 _So much for control._  The thought was mocking, but McCoy was distracted when he pushed with his single digit and Spock’s body accepted him like an opened gift.

“See?” Spock sounded amused, and McCoy would have said something about computers not feeling amusement, except Spock spread his legs impossibly wider, the gap between the muscular thighs widening until he saw the aroused flesh pressed against the blue sheets, the delicate sack. “Does it bother you so, Doctor? It does not bother me.”

“You mean you wouldn’t mind if someone…?” McCoy was beyond speech at that point, too busy imagining the scene as it would play out and as his finger mimicked the longed-for motions of his body. If someone was to enter sickbay at this hour, it would be a nurse, maybe even Christine. She would see them, Spock laid out like he was and McCoy pushing into that body she had dreamed about…

 _Christine’s going to be so angry with me._  The thought occurred to him, but McCoy barely noticed it, he was too busy dousing his fingers in more lubricant, leaving shining trails across Spock’s skin when he returned to the softly stretched entrance. A second finger was inserted, and McCoy’s breathing was ragged. That perfect grasp, clinging to his fingers, and just inches away…and Spock was looking at him with those dark eyes.

“I expect to be beyond noticing at that point,  _Doctor_.”

McCoy was uncertain how he managed to stay in control, how he even managed to find the sensitive skin inside Spock’s body with a twist of his fingers. He was a doctor, damnit, and he knew the layout of a body better than any inexperienced lover, but he did not feel like a professional just then. Didn’t feel like a lover particularly, either. But he was distracted from these thoughts that should have meant something by Spock panting out “ _Doctor_ ” and pushing himself against McCoy’s hands, swallowing his fingers up to the second knuckle. McCoy touched him at the base of his spine with his spare hand, petted him really, and Spock made a noise of impatience.

McCoy removed his fingers with a wet sound and a groan when he imagined Spock’s tight, hot flesh around his cock. He was a civilized man…the thought was just enough that he remembered to smooth his slick palms across his own throbbing flesh before he lined himself up and thrust smoothly, slowly. He had to stop almost as soon as he felt the tight, soft heat, because he had to close his eyes, just  _had to_ , to savor the sensation of his hips pressing against firm flesh, his fingers digging into skin just above Spock’s lower ribcage, and that welcoming grip yielding to him with each jerk of his body.

McCoy lost track of time, he could admit it. There was a special heaven made of this, of having someone like Spock arching into him, a heaven that he probably didn’t deserve. But he’d never had anything to work with in his fantasy, not the smell of sex or the slide of his sweat easing his movements more than the lubricant did, so it  _had_  to be true. Had to be, because he could never have dared to imagine having sex with Spock on one of the biobeds, would have blushed thinking of it because playing doctor just wasn’t his style.

But Spock seemed to appreciate it well enough, his hands—once so neatly folded—clenching in the foam mattress and, if McCoy wasn’t mistaken, the metal beneath. And then suddenly Spock was hissing like steam, and McCoy worried for a moment, seeing his eyes narrowed and his cheeks flushed to his ears, but then he listened closely and heard words, definitely Vulcan. Spock was so out of his mind that he was  _gasping out Vulcan_.

McCoy groaned again, and the words came unintentionally.

“So tight, so good, Spock. Love being in you, love feeling you like this, gonna take care of you just fine, darlin’…”

Spock didn’t open his eyes, but the angle of his head allowed McCoy to see when his lips curved slightly. It was the best thing McCoy had ever seen.  _Better even than_ …but he didn’t complete the thought.

“No, Doctor. I’ll take care of  _you_.”

McCoy didn’t know what he meant and he didn’t care, because Spock was clenching around him and touching himself, bucking his hips into his thrusts, and McCoy came, wondering only belatedly if it would stain the sheets.


	4. Chapter 4

McCoy’s first thought upon landing back in his body was that they should have used some sort of protection, because you just never knew what sort of space disease was waiting for you to get a tear in a bacteria-ripe area. The second thought he had was  _Did I call Spock “darlin’?”_  and everything bad that came with that, every uncertainty that he’d ever had rising up as he realized—too late—what had happened.

They’d had sex, because McCoy had wanted it and Spock had offered. That was hardly the best start to a relationship—he’d ended more than one that way, actually—but it especially wasn’t a great way to continue a friendship. It might not have been taboo, but it was still damn foolish to risk their fragile, hostile friendship for what amounted to a quick—seventeen minutes, God he was  _fast_ —roll in blue sheets.

McCoy realized he was panicking about two seconds after Spock realized it.

“Doctor? Are you quite all right?”

Spock was standing, still naked as the day he was born, but McCoy didn’t know when they’d switched positions, with him lying on his back in something…sticky.

“I’m fine. My, er, shoulder is hurting. Again.”

Spock looked entirely unconvinced, which only made sense; he had been close enough that McCoy’s  _shoulder_  probably looked just fine to him.

“I understand it is human nature to worry about the addition of sex into a pre-existing relationship, but I assure you, Doctor, that I intend to act no differently.”

The Vulcan equivalent of “It didn’t mean anything.” Well, that just about made his night, didn’t it? They hadn’t even kissed, hadn’t so much as touched with affection. Why it seemed so important now he didn’t know, but for some reason the thought just kept circling in his head.

_What did you expect, old man?_

What he expected didn’t matter, and he didn’t get a chance to do what he wanted, which was to throw a holy fit in a true, melodramatic fashion.  _Use me for sex, you bastard!_  But he was a doctor first, and at that moment, the comm unit on his desk chimed cheerfully.

“Doctor McCoy, there’s been an accident in engineering. Please come in.”

McCoy answered it without a second thought, just grateful that they hadn’t called a few minutes earlier. But by answering, the moment to protest the entire arrangement between them was lost, and by the time he was dressed, Spock was gone.

********

The accident in engineering was barely even a blip on the scale of accidents onboard  _Enterprise_ , which really just meant that no one was seriously maimed and no one had died. To McCoy, it meant staying up even later than he’d planned, until well into the morning, fixing minor injuries and making sure that everyone understood they should stop listening to Scotty’s crazy ideas.

Between the sleep deprivation and the general panic he’d picked up from before the entire thing, he wasn’t exactly good company , and it only got worse as that afternoon rolled around . After the second or third time he caused one of his nurses to leave the room crying for some minor failing, Christine pulled him into his office with a frown.

“Doctor, you need some rest.” He scowled at her, and she continued quickly. “If you would like me to take over Commander Spock’s appointment or postpone it—”

“ _No._ ” Realizing how much the noise sounded like a snarl, he stopped and tried again. “No, Christine. Spock’s a big boy; he’s seen me pissed off before, and he can handle it.”

“All right.” She glanced over her shoulder at the ship’s clock, and McCoy watched her bite her lip.

 _Worried about him, Christine?_  But no; instead, she patted him on the shoulder before nodding slowly, looking gentle and kind.

“All right. I’ll be on call if you need anything, Doctor.”

McCoy nodded, realizing he was being a jerk but unable to stop it. He whispered “sorry” as she left, doubting she’d heard it, but by that point, McCoy was already planning to beg for forgiveness – once he’d dealt with Spock.

Wishing the morning hadn’t gone by so quickly, McCoy left the safe confines of his office, returning to the condemning sight of the nearly-deserted sickbay with a nearly overwhelming sense of déjà vu, seeing Spock standing there, looking professional as ever. Not exhausted, and McCoy knew he had been up until at least four hours ago filling out the reports to go with Scotty’s little misadventure.

Apparently, he hadn’t lost any sleep over  _their_  little adventure.

“You know the drill.” Spock pulled off his shirts, but as he began to lie face down, McCoy felt a surge of pure, unstoppable panic. “No, not like that; sitting up.”

Spock didn’t ask him why he had changed the arrangement they’d had for weeks, and McCoy didn’t volunteer any information.

His hands shook when they touched Spock’s back, and  _that was stupid._

“Doctor.” The voice was curt, and McCoy expected many things, “what on Earth is wrong with you” being the main one. “Would you like to have dinner with me this evening?”

McCoy concentrated on his work, on erasing the tiny dots under his fingertips. Although part of him insisted on focusing on Spock’s words, the rest of him was reminded of Spock bringing him lunch trays when he forgot to eat, and how he’d read things into that before.

“No. I’m, ah, busy.”

“I see.”

They continued in silence, one that McCoy told himself wasn’t awkward at all. Before Spock left, he asked McCoy if he would meet him for breakfast, and he refused that one, too.

When McCoy clocked out for that evening—early, because he did need the sleep—he spent the first ten minutes after shift masturbating furiously like he hadn’t since he was a boy. Fueled by actual memories, the fantasies were as hot as a muggy Georgia day and just as uncomfortable, just like the kind he’d only ever had during his divorce – and just like before, they didn’t help. In fact, they might have made things worse, if he’d let them.

_Can’t have both friendship and sex, boy. Don’t even try._

But McCoy, because he wasn’t logical, didn’t learn, and his exhausted sleep was filled with more dreams than he could remember.

********

Of course all of it came to an end, of course it did. McCoy wasn’t even surprised when it happened, not after he’d been barely able to function during his damn job just hours after the fact, not when he had experience with these things going to hell.

He just hadn’t expected it to end quite the way it did. Their friendship—or  _whatever_ —had seemed fairly balanced before, but McCoy was pretty sure that was because he kept his mouth shut when it didn’t concern him. But this time—their second to last appointment—he hadn’t.

“I didn’t know you were so damn  _vain_ , Spock!”

The words surprised him when they came out of his mouth, probably more than they surprised Spock.

“I beg your pardon, Doctor?”

The words were so polite, not annoyed at all—an easy way out, if only he would have  _taken_  it. But he didn’t take it; the possibility of a rational conversation seemed to elude him right then, so much so that he nearly threw that delicate instrument across the room.

“What I  _mean_ , you bastard, is why are you wasting my time on these cosmetic surgeries? You don’t need them.”

“That is none of your business, Doctor.” The tone was warning, but McCoy didn’t stop. He  _pushed_. Call it the result of stress.

“None of my business? Fine. Get someone else to finish your vanity work.”

Spock pushed himself to his feet, close enough that he loomed his few extra inches over McCoy, and McCoy had never seen his eyes look so cold.

“Very well. Excuse me, Doctor.” Spock pushed by him, and McCoy gaped after him. They hadn’t been finished, had barely started, but Spock was still leaving, pulling his shirt on without a second thought. Leaving.

Spock had asked him before their appointment if he wanted to have lunch, again.

McCoy imagined that it wouldn’t happen again.

********

McCoy told himself that he hadn’t lost anything by apparently prying too hard into things that really were none of his business. He told himself that he could function just fine without Spock’s friendship or his company, without seeing him in a neutral, peaceful setting about once a week, without seeing him almost daily when he helped the medical division stay above the inevitable demand. McCoy could live without it because he’d done it before, because he’d been alone—just him and Jim—for a long time.

Didn’t mean it wasn’t miserable, though. And when Jim actually started dating—Uhura, of all people, which was as inevitable as solar flares—it was even more lonely.

Whenever he saw Spock for the two weeks after their  _disagreement_ , the bastard ignored him. Completely. He didn’t even respond to McCoy’s almost-xenophobic jabs, and that, more than anything, was a sign that he had fucked up whatever balance they had quite royally.

It might have stayed that way, forever maybe, if  _Enterprise_  hadn’t ended up transporting the Collaborative Federation Board of Scientists across three solar systems. And even that wouldn’t have mattered, except there was a Mallorian among them, and Mallorians were  _friendly._

She liked McCoy. Probably not romantically, but they were colleagues in a difficult field and so they had lunch together a couple times a week, much to Christine’s obvious but inexplicable displeasure. They also talked, frequently, about what they agreed was the luckiest starship crew in the universe, and they joked—less frequently—about the misery that was associated with seeing everyone naked at some point or another. McCoy accepted her open interest in him (in humans, really) not because he was  _lonely_ , but because she offered it so freely.

It was nice knowing someone who was  _easy_  to be around. Who didn’t argue with him. Who didn’t look so smug and perfect all the time. Who didn’t make his heart beat fast. It was nice, but not enough that McCoy so much as considered asking for her contact information at the end of the conference; he just didn’t  _care_  that much.

“The thing is, dating isn’t easy, yes? There are misunderstandings, there is jealousy, there is…heartbreak?” She ended the last on a questioning note, her Standard heavily accented, and McCoy nodded to show that she was on the right track.

“But starting a relationship, as the doctor, is harder. Because you can’t go up to one of your patients and say ‘Well, aren’t you gorgeous?’ without being unwelcome.”

McCoy nodded sagely and she hugged him, because that was what she did. And because his luck was  _that bad_ , the sickbay doors opened at that instant, barely giving himself time to pull away from the less-than-professional embrace. He expected ribbing from one of his nurses—nurses who had taken to giving him and Salloria “alone time”—but what he hadn’t expected was the cold, dark eyes that were staring at him.

“Doctor.” Damnit, why did it have to be  _Spock_? McCoy hadn’t seen him outside of a strictly professional setting for over two weeks, and then he’s caught being unprofessional with a delegate. He was sure to get a lecture for that one, something about fraternizing surely, except…Spock looked  _angry_ in a way that he hadn’t since those damn emotion-spores from that emotion-planet Jim had thought was a  _great_  idea had infiltrated the air vents.

McCoy would have said something—possibly whipped out a tricorder or herded him to a biobed, even—but Spock moved forward, faster than he expected, grabbed his arm, and tugged.

“What the  _hell_ , Spock?” People were staring, looking shocked, whispering as he was all but dragged through the corridor from sickbay to his own quarters. He didn’t wonder how Spock knew where he lived because he was the First Officer, but he sure  _as hell_  wanted to know how Spock had gotten the password, more so when he invited himself in without so much as an “excuse me.”

McCoy jerked his arm free, aware that he was angrier than he should have been…but damnit, he hadn’t so much as had a conversation with Spock for sixteen days (no, he  _wasn’t_  counting) and now he was being manhandled? He was angry, very angry, and he wanted to fight about it, wanted to call Spock a whole bunch of vile things that would probably get him slapped in mixed company.

He didn’t do either, because almost as soon as he’d sucked in a breath to speak, Spock kissed him. Petted his jaw. Stroked his hair. Despite the fact that McCoy was about ready to spit nails and Spock wasn’t any better, the kiss was almost peaceful. Friendly. And then Spock pulled away and McCoy pretended he’d been about to do the same, and they looked at each warily.

“Not going to change anything, huh?”

Spock glared at him.

“It did not. Doctor, you are the one who was with another.”

McCoy may not have spoken a million languages like Jim or Uhura or whoever the hell, but he was pretty sure Spock was speaking Standard—it should have made sense, but it didn’t.

“…what?”

“I am given to understand that we have been having a spat, but you did not have to...I do not appreciate infidelity, Doctor.”

“Damnit, Spock, don’t call me ‘doctor!’” Was McCoy’s automatic response, before he could fully realize the fact that Spock had just accused him of  _cheating_. Spock, who had  _dumped_  him without preamble not so long ago.

Spock just stiffened impossibly, and narrowed his eyes.

“You rejected my attempts at public courtship, despite accepting private signals of such and agreeing to engage in intercourse. You disparaged me for the presence of my physical flaws—”

“I did  _not_. You’re the one who is so up in arms to remove everything that makes you  _unique_.”

McCoy was annoyed, but not as much as he’d expected himself to be after  _weeks_  of Spock not being there.

“Of course. They are flaws, Doctor.”

McCoy snorted, and while part of him wondered where Spock had gotten that idea, most of him was just…annoyed.

“You’ve got problems.”

“And yet you are the one who took our disagreement as permission to be unfaithful.”

“And you’re  _nuts_ ,” McCoy snarled, emphasizing the insult with a wide wave of his hand. “We were just—wait. Repeat that first part.”

Spock looked—if possible—more agitated than before.

“You rejected my attempts at public courtship—”

“ _That’s_  what you were doing? Asking me to dinner?”

“Nyota informed me that Vulcan courtship is often too subtle, and that I should attempt human displays of such.” His voice was just short of acidic, which clearly showed what he thought of  _that_  suggestion. McCoy would have been more upset about the obvious slight to his species, again, except he was still operating on a half-full tank of knowledge.

“How long have we been…dating?”

“Seven point two months.”

McCoy swallowed, but although he attempted to pinpoint the date, he couldn’t. When Spock let him touch his bare skin? When Spock gave him a gift? When Spock started to help him, even when he wouldn’t admit he needed it?

“We took it slow, did we?”

“Vulcan courtships often last many years, when attempted in adulthood.”

“So…we had sex as…as  _boyfriends_?” McCoy choked on the last word, and Spock finally looked at him with something that wasn’t anger, or irritation.

“Yes.”

“Why wasn’t there…I mean…damnit, I’m  _too old_ for this!” And McCoy felt ashamed and a little embarrassed to be asking the question, but nevertheless, it had to be asked.

“Doctor, you are quite young by Vulcan standards.”

“Not by human ones. Dammit, Spock, why didn’t we  _kiss_? Why was it just…wham, bam, thank you, sir?”

“It was more efficient. Also…” Spock hesitated, and McCoy didn’t understand. “You displayed obvious arousal when confronted with that position in the past.”

McCoy felt his eyes narrow in suspicion even while his mind stuttered over “obvious arousal” and the fact that Spock had  _known_.

“How do you know that?”

“Vulcans are touch telepaths, Doctor.”

McCoy blinked, and while he mostly wanted to call Spock a lying liar that lies, he almost thought it made…sense. It certainly explained how Spock knew when his mind was wandering, and while he should definitely have been annoyed with the invasion of privacy, he recalled a gift given freely with the intention of apologizing for “taking advantage.”

 _Telepathy sure as hell isn’t in his file._  Damn sneaky Vulcans; things like this only happened because they were so fucking  _private_.  

“That’s just goddamn cheating.”

“Doctor…”

“Yes?”

“What would you like me to call you?”

McCoy snorted, suddenly tired. Didn’t normal couples cover this, you know, the first day or so?

“Leonard works. But, ah, one condition.”

“Yes?”

_Moment of truth…_

“Where did you get that scar? On your shoulder?”

Unlike before, Spock didn’t hesitate. The past few weeks had clearly given him some cause to reflect on what he considered acceptable boundaries, and McCoy would have felt triumphant, except that had never been why he’d wanted to know.

“I was mauled by a wild animal when I was quite young, as a result of being excluded from one of my classes. My brother, Sybok, saved my life at the expense of his own. Keeping such a reminder seemed only…fitting.”

McCoy swallowed, and he wondered why he hadn’t known. That was probably in some family record somewhere, but for no reason in particular, McCoy just hadn’t thought Spock would have had anything so traumatizing in his past. His brother had died to save his life, because he had been  _excluded_  from one of his classes. Whether he had been excluded by classmates or teachers didn’t matter, but because Spock wasn’t a trouble maker, probably had never been, that meant that he had been put in danger simply cause he was  _Spock_.

Spock, with all his human flaws. And scars.

_Ah hell._

“Your brother, huh? He loved you?”

Spock wasn’t meeting his eyes, but neither had he turned away completely; he seemed careful to keep his obvious scars out of sight, even though they were already underneath his clothing, and McCoy wondered why he’d never noticed.

“As much as a Vulcan is able. Sybok was not…regular, by any means.”

“And you loved him?” The question wasn’t fair, but McCoy figured he would know where to go from there by Spock’s reaction, and he was right.

“Doctor, why is this relevant?”

“I just thought that since he was your brother, his opinion probably mattered a bit more than the opinions of a bunch of random Vulcan jerks. And he loved you, Spock, scars and all.”

Spock stayed silent, and McCoy sighed, rubbing his eyes. He wasn’t good at psychology, not like a few other doctors he could list, but Spock would never admit to needing it. Would never share something so personal with someone he didn’t trust.

And because Spock  _trusted_  him, McCoy tried with everything he had to be worthy of it.

 “They aren’t flaws, you know. Scars just…are. The result of making mistakes and accidents and having something to show that you learned. They don’t make you less.”

Spock looked unconvinced, like he’d heard it all before.

“It is not Vulcan to take pride in mistakes.”

“I didn’t think it was Vulcan to hide them either.”

“Doctor, you are biased. You experience arousal at such marks.”

McCoy wondered if he’d had a thought that Spock  _didn’t_  know since they’d begun this thing, but at least this time, McCoy could say he was wrong.

“No, I experience arousal at  _you_. I don’t give a damn how Vulcan-perfect you are.”

Spock blinked at him before slowly reaching out a hand, and McCoy wondered what he was doing up until the hesitant brush of fingers against his neck.

When they pulled back, Spock looked…surprised.

“Interesting.”

“Yeah. Who’d have guessed, huh?” They didn’t say anything immediately, but McCoy cleared his throat, needing to ask just one more question.

“Spock. This probably should have come up before, but…are you in love with me?”

“Love is a curious term, Doctor, and far too emotional for a civilized conversation.” Which was the expected non-answer, and about as useless as anything. McCoy’s intention to demand more, however, flew out the airlock when Spock continued. “I will tell you, Leonard, that you do not need to fear that I will abandon you, or hurt you in any way. I will also tell you that I will be…affected if you chose another.”

_“Affected” indeed._

“We were just talking. She’s a friendly lady, you know.”

 “I am aware.”

Spock nodded his understanding, but in his voice was not the sound of Vulcan neutral, and McCoy was amused as hell. Flattered too.

“You’re  _possessive_  is what you are.”

“Merely…cautious. However, Nyota and the Captain used a similar term as yourself.”

“They called you possessive?” McCoy deliberately decided not to touch on the fact that Jim and Uhura had apparently known that they were dating before he had. Christine too, actually; it explained why her obvious crush had never shifted to open love – respect for his  _feelings_.

“Among other things.”

McCoy just shook his head.

“I really am too old for this, you know.”

But Spock, as always, read his mind.

“No. You are not.”

It was good enough for McCoy

They moved for each other simultaneously, Spock reaching for his hands and McCoy reaching for his face. Their intentions collided somewhere along the way, and the result was kissing while intertwined hands petted Spock’s jaw, McCoy delighting in the feel of coarse hair underneath his smooth face.  _This_  was what they had missed out on by not kissing, this slow exploration that wasn’t urgent or impossible or uncertain, this experience that would have wiped his worries away if only they’d shared it before.

_Ah well. Mistakes don’t get erased._

Spock hummed and kissed him harder, the experience less easy than the soft brush of before. Their mouths didn’t fit perfectly like a fairytale, but McCoy was starting to think he loved making mistakes with Spock, and this was no different. Sweet kisses, misaligned. Hot kisses, landing more on jaws than lips. Deep kisses, when they finally got it right.

And because McCoy could admit to needing it, as soon as they were finally moving along the same idea, he prolonged the kiss even after they both needed to breathe, and they broke apart gasping.

Spock’s lips were swollen green; McCoy wondered if he’d bitten them, and his bottom lip was tingling, which meant Spock had probably copied the action.

“Feel like kissing now?” McCoy panted out, and Spock looked like he wanted to say something snide in response, but he didn’t. McCoy, in turn, didn’t prompt for it.

See? They were growing.

“I must admit that the experience was…notable.” It was said with enough interest that McCoy wondered how much kissing Spock had actually  _done_ , and then he decided to kill the thoughts where they stood.

Instead, he forced his best drawl.

“ _Was_? Well come on back, darlin,’ and we’ll see if we can improve on that.”

Spock looked entirely un-amused.

“If you insist on using pet names, may I request something with more dignity?”

McCoy chuckled, and he thought he was smiling, actually smiling, and he didn’t try to hide it at all.

“Would you prefer muffin? Peaches? Honey-pot?”

“Leonard, I believe there is a human custom involving ‘sleeping on the couch.’”

“That only applies when there’s actually a couch.”

“I suspect you are lying to me.”

Spock begin to move towards him again, and McCoy jumped back.

“Hey, no cheating!”

Spock looked exasperated, and he had possibly the worst  _innocent_  expression McCoy had ever seen. Things like that were difficult when you hadn’t had experience tugging heartstrings (or didn’t realize you’d had experience.)

“Leonard, I wish only to be close to you.”

McCoy didn’t have a chance to respond that time, because Spock was kissing him again. Shutting him up with kisses was a bad habit that they’d have to talk about…later. Much later. Because however much McCoy might have felt like an old man sometimes, there were certain parts of his body that didn’t agree with him, the same parts that insisted on telling him Spock was pressed up against him and willing.

Because it had seemed to work the first time, McCoy pulled back and tackled him, this time aiming for the small standard bed that was the woe of being an unofficial officer. They landed, McCoy on top of Spock and their limbs entangled, and it wasn’t enough, not by far.

McCoy didn’t wait for Spock to undress—this time, he did it for him with slow, raking touches and open admiration. Spock returned the favor but McCoy barely noticed, because what was between them wasn’t about  _returning the favor_. McCoy wanted Spock to enjoy it and enjoy him, and that was far more important than the physical.

Still, there was something completely satisfying about having Spock on his back instead of his stomach, with his legs over his shoulders instead of digging into unforgiving metal. And there was something delicious about the taste of him, more tangy than salty because Vulcans produced different salts in their bodies, and McCoy thought he would never tire of it, of the feel of Spock’s perfect length bobbing in his mouth and the way it filled his cheeks.

It had never been like this, and McCoy knew he couldn’t let the experience go. Not even if it killed him.

_Never again, Spock. We’re not breaking up ever again!_

A quietly gasped “Affirmative” was his only response, and McCoy rewarded the compliance to his own possessive streak by sucking him down.

When Spock came, it was with a combination of Vulcan words and the name  _Leonard_  on his lips. When McCoy kissed him there were  _other things_  on his lips, of course, but Spock just traced the flavor with his tongue, pressing his fingers lightly to the artery on McCoy’s throat and humming.

“An interesting experience, Leonard. Under the circumstances, I believe that I can allow your pet name, on this occasion only.”

McCoy kissed him deep and long, and when he pulled back, he felt like a smiling fool.

“ _Darlin’_.”

Because McCoy was lying on top of him, he felt Spock’s breath catch, and he buried his face in the hard angles of collarbone beneath him.

 _Somebody_  was a lying liar about minding that pet name…but McCoy didn’t care at the moment, because the next thing he knew, Spock had flipped them over, would have flipped them out of the bed entirely had there not been a wall on one side.

“This is entirely inefficient, Leonard, and a difficult angle.”

McCoy didn’t know what he was talking about until Spock sat in his lap, and then everything—his heart, his mind, his body—stuttered to a stop. He didn’t think he’d be so lucky to have  _this_  ever again, never mind the fact that Spock was the one making all the moves, the one guiding McCoy’s fingers to that tight heat, the one rocking against him until the soft, spent penis rose up to bump its companion.

McCoy remembered lube, but thankfully so did Spock, as evidenced by the small vial he pulled from his discarded uniform pants. McCoy looked at him questioningly, and Spock responded by twisting the cap off the vial and touching himself with a hand made slick.

“I was under the impression that ‘making up’ is best achieved through copulation.”

“ _Yes_. God yes, let’s go with that.”

McCoy poured the viscous fluid that smelled like aloe on his hands, and he fumbled before reaching for Spock, for the hard cock that he didn’t think he’d ever want hidden, ever…which was sure to make work awkward after this.

The thought would have made him laugh, except then Spock was lowering himself down, slowly, the gentle friction surrounding McCoy’s hard cock until he thought he’d burst. And Spock rode him, long and slow, for what might have been days except McCoy doubted he’d ever last that long,  _ever_.

But it wasn’t until McCoy had his hands wrapped around that lean back and his palms pressed against those few remaining scars that he came, fingertips digging deep into skin as Spock too stilled. It wasn’t until afterwards that he realized what he’d done, and then because he was on a roll, he kissed Spock gently on the lips—well, gently at first.

“Love your scars, Spock. Love them.”

It was the closest he would probably ever come to saying “I love you,” and Spock probably knew it. Because he was Vulcan, he didn’t mind.

McCoy planned to surprise him one day.

********

END

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Spock pursues McCoy in own his own ‘logical’ way. They get together; everyone’s really surprised (esp. Kirk and Uhura) that he’s so possessive and jealous over McCoy. Although McCoy snarks about it, he secretly likes it.


End file.
